Watson Your Mind
by Voldieissocool
Summary: sorry for the punny title . In need of a place to stay, Harry turns up at 221B. Amused by the obvious tension between her brother and the consulting detective, it soon becomes her goal to get them together. Oneshot with swears! Eventual Johnlock.


For my darling lovely Hannah and Holly.  
sorry for the terribly punny title, I was forced to call it this by a friend.  
Thankyou for reading! Feel free to drop a review :)  
there's swears

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters :'D

* * *

Watson Your Mind

John had just brought out the tea when there was a loud banging on the front door downstairs. He stopped and shot Sherlock a puzzled look.

It was far too late for any of their usual clients, he thought.

Ignoring the pile of papers on their coffee table, per Sherlock's strict rule never to move anything, he simply put the tray on top.

Sherlock's eyes glared at him over the top of his book.  
John ignored him and went downstairs to see what the knocking was all about.

The knocking got persistently louder as he approached the door.  
"Alright, alright!" he said, a little irritatedly. "I'm coming!"

He opened the door and, before he could register who it was, somebody pushed roughly past him into the hallway.

"Took your bloody time, didn't you, Hedgehog?" the person spat. "It's fucking freezing out there!"  
John sighed.

It had only been a matter of time, he knew, before Harry would invite herself around to the small flat at 221b.

The small flat which, he had a feeling, was about to seem a lot smaller than usual.

* * *

"Harry, what are you doing here?" he asked, as he followed her up the stairs into the living room of their flat.

Sherlock, who was sitting in his usual chair by the fire, raised his eyebrows.

"You didn't tell me your sister was coming, John." he said, eyes giving Harry the once-over and then flicking back to his book.

Harry looked a little taken aback.  
"Hedgehog, you didn't tell me you'd finally found yourself a _man_," she said, laughing. "And a real one, too!"  
John gave her a deadpan look and crossed his arms, still standing in the doorway.

Something was up. Harry wasn't drunk, but her 'can't touch me' façade, he knew, meant that something was wrong.

Harry plonked onto their couch and put her feet on the armrest, staring at him.  
"What?" she said.

John hadn't moved.

"Why are you here, Harry?" he asked, still deadpan.

Harry bit her lip and stared at her dirty Converse.

She mumbled something softly in reply.

"What?" said John, unfolding his arms.

_Her and Clara have had another argument,_ he thought. _They've had another argument, and Mum won't let her in the house anymore._  
"What?" he said, sitting on the couch next to her.

"We had another argument. I've been trying hard, _really hard_, not to…you know, drink, and it's just been so difficult…I've been really stressed out lately at work and we're trying to find a house together, to live properly together…and I got drunk and she yelled at me, and then I just left…and I tried to call her but she won't answer and I'm really scared, John, I'm scared that I've fucked things up forever and she won't have me back."

John sighed, putting his arm around his sister and hugged her close. She was crying now. That was worrying. Harry rarely cried.

Sherlock tried to ignore this touching family moment and concentrated even harder on the fascinating sentence he was reading about cellular respiration.

John tried to comfort his sister.  
"Look, I'm sure it'll be fine. You'll work it out eventually."

Harry sniffled, her tears rolling into the soft wool of John's jumper.

"Well, just…stay here, until you do, okay?" he said, looking at her concernedly.

_If she's here then at least I can stop her drinking. Maybe I'll call Clara and see if I can work it out with her,_ he thought._ This has happened before, I suppose. They'll work it out._

She stopped sniffling and looked at him.

"Really?"

John nodded, patting her hair gently.

Sherlock was now merely pretending to read his book. In truth, he'd read the same sentence about ten times.  
He opened his mouth to say something sarcastically biting in reply to John's invitation, but John shushed him with one look and instead poured a cup of the now almost tepid tea.

He handed it to Harry and, taking her hand, ushered her upstairs to his room.

After putting new sheets on his bed and tucking in his sister, John sat with her as she fell asleep.

Even though Harry was two years older than him, he still felt like the protective older brother.

She was upset, this time. It must've been a _serious_ argument. Usually Harry ended up just wandering around for the night and going home in the morning, and everything had been fine.

John had always ended up helping Harry whenever anything had gone drastically, badly wrong. Ever since they were teenagers. His parents had almost rejected her, ignoring her pleas for help and brushing away her attempts to reach out to them. _No wonder she's got issues._

He watched his sister curled up in the blankets, breathing softly, and wished there was some way he could fix all of her mistakes, to make it all better.

* * *

John went downstairs, holding the now empty cup and running his free hand through his hair.

Sherlock was now sitting on the couch, drinking tea and looking disgruntledly at the muddy scuff-marks.

"And how long will we bask in the pleasurable company of your alcoholic sister?" he said acidly.

John just shook his head exasperatedly. He wasn't going to get into a fight about his sister's mistakes.

"The tea hot?" he asked by means of ignoring Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes turned towards him over the rim of his teacup. He nodded.

John poured himself a cup and sat down on the couch next to Sherlock, who, not used to the close proximity, shifted slightly. His stomach did a peculiar flip and he took a large sip of tea.

John bit his lip in a grimace Sherlock knew well.

"Why is she here, John? Don't you have parents she can stay with?" Sherlock asked, petulantly. "You know I don't like company."  
John wrinkled his eyebrows. "They won't have her at their place. And," he said, Sherlock's remarks sinking in, "What am I, then?"  
Sherlock smiled, eyes locked onto John's. "Oh, you're not company." he said.

John swallowed. He had no idea what was going through Sherlock's mind when he was smiling like that, but it certainly made John go slightly weak.

"Anyway," he said, slightly hurriedly, as though he was trying to get his thoughts off the track they'd begun on, "She'll only be staying with us for a little bit, Sherlock. Three days at the most."  
Sherlock made a grumpy noise before turning his back to John and putting his feet on the arm of the couch.

"Well, she's _my_ sister and since _I _pay half of the rent, I think I'm entitled to have houseguests, Sherlock," John said. "Oh, and she's sleeping in my bed, so either I need to share with you, or sleep on the sofa."

Sherlock's heart gave a peculiar flutter and he took another deep sip of tea to calm it.

"You could share with me, if you must. The couch is dreadfully uncomfortable." he said, trying to keep his voice even.

"Right," said John. "I'm off to go get changed into pyjamas. And," he said, draining his cup and placing it on the coffee table, "I suggest you might think about doing the same."

Sherlock's usually pale face became suddenly tinged with pink.

* * *

After a night spent sleeping as far away from John's person as he found possible, Sherlock wasn't very well-rested. John had been a warm presence in the usually cold bed, and Sherlock had to try his utmost not to take the army doctor in his arms and snuggle him into the night.

Sherlock stretched, getting up as quietly as he could, so as not to wake the sleeping John.

John woke up, leg hanging off one side of the bed and pillow half over his face. Sherlock wasn't in the bed, although there was a Sherlock-shaped dent in the mattress and rumpled sheets where he had been. John rolled onto his back and stretched out, curling his toes. He felt remarkably well-rested…he'd definitely slept better than usual. Even though it had been a good while since he'd been in combat, he still had nightmares, usually every night.

Whether this newfound good sleep was simply the calming presence of another body in the bed, or whether it was because that other body was Sherlock, John didn't know. He found, to his surprise, that he was more inclined to believe the Sherlock-shaped reason.

Harry had slept for a few hours, and then, waking suddenly in the middle of the night, lonely in a strange bed without the usual presence next to her, had spent most of the night huddled in the blankets, thinking about what she could say to make it better.

She hadn't realised it was morning until there was sunlight beginning to creep into the room, and she sat up, wiping her eyes, not feeling that tired.

When John eventually got out of bed, Sherlock hadn't eaten. He usually didn't, waiting for John to make him some food.

This morning, he was at the table in the kitchen, building yet another science experiment.

"Morning," said John as he came into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. "Have you eaten yet?"

Sherlock's eyes darted to meed John's and he shook his head.

"Alright, then, I'll make some toast." said John, setting about finding the toaster. "That is, if you didn't put…mixtures in the toaster again."  
"John," said Sherlock, not taking his eyes off the chemical he was pouring into a test tube, "I wouldn't expect you to understand. It was an _experiment_."

Harry came down the stairs to the smell of toast and coffee, mingled with something…chemical she couldn't quite place.

"Good morning, Hedgehog," she said, coming into the sitting room. "Sherlock." she added, seeing the tall man hunched over a tangle of glass tubing and coloured chemicals.

Sherlock grunted in reply.

John smiled and handed her some toast.

"So, have you thought about what you're going to do?" he asked tentatively.

Harry stopped eating and nodded slightly. "I'll call again, and if she's still not answering, I'm going around."  
John looked worried. "Do you really think that's the best course of action-" he began, and was promptly cut off by Harry, who seemed to think it was better if he kept his nose out of her business.

"It's my life, Hedgehog. I'm old enough to fuck with it myself."

John stopped eating and put the toast on his plate.

"Okay, Harry. For the time you're staying here, I only want you to stick to three rules."  
Harry finished her slice of toast and leant back in her chair, raising her eyebrows.

Sherlock, who was watching with interest out of the corner of his goggles, muttered, "This…should be interesting."

"Sherlock." said John in a warning tone.

"I was talking about my experiment." said Sherlock nonchalantly, and waved a test tube in John's direction.

Harry, who seemed amused at the obvious affection between the two, chuckled internally.

"Yes, Hedgehog. What bollocks are you going to try and pin me down with, then?" she asked.

"Rule one. No drinking. Rule two. No swearing. And rule three. No girlfriends."

"John, I wonder why you haven't given _me_ these rules." said Sherlock as casually as he could manage.

"Shut up, you." said John.

Harriet rolled her eyes. "Please, you two, just make out already."

John gently shook his head at her before continuing. "So do you accept?"  
Harriet shrugged. "I suppose. And Hedgehog, really, like I was going to bring my girlfriend around here."

John returned the shrug.

She stood up and put her mobile in her pocket. "Well, I'm off. Don't jump on each other as soon as I've left the room." she said, winking at the flustered John as she left.

* * *

With Harriet gone, or at least _out_, Sherlock managed to do his experiment in peace, and John managed to update his blog.

However, both of the men, whilst pretending not to care about Harry's constant hinting, were actually rather absorbed in thinking about it.

As Sherlock pondered the results of his experiment and a few little problems that had been submitted to him via his blog, his mind (and eyes) kept turning to John.

How he had woken up that morning in a bed with John and felt as thought it should always be that way, as thought that was their default, natural state. How John had blushed when Harry suggested they might…ah, what was the term…ah yes, 'jump' each other. How John had handed him toast that morning and definitely lingered in their brushing of hands…and how Sherlock's insides seemed to rapidly condense and invert themselves whenever he recounted these events.

It was puzzling.

Surely, he thought, it can't be _sentimental feelings_. I am a rational, thinking mind. I can't allow my 'heart' to muddle up my thinking.

He made a steeple with his fingers and pondered his problem.

John had been thinking much the same. As he had woken up that morning he had almost _missed_ Sherlock…as much as he tried not to think to himself that he wanted to wake up with Sherlock-preferably in his arms or the like-he just couldn't convince himself otherwise. Typing up a blog post about their latest crime-solving adventure he found himself either staring at Sherlock's reflection in the screen, or at the picture of him with 'that infernal ear-hat', or even typing his thoughts out by accident. Even just thinking about Sherlock made his heart beat a little faster, breathe a little quicker, shivers roll over his skin and his stomach clench.

Backspacing a whole three paragraphs he'd accidentally written, he sighed and wondered if this was a normal attachment to form to your…_how would you put it, _he wondered. _Flatmate? Companion?__  
__Friend?_

* * *

After a tense day in which not much was said and not much was done, filled with Sherlock and John awkwardly glancing at each other, only to quickly look away as soon as the other looked up, Harry came in the door, shutting it roughly behind her.

John, who was typing determinedly, looked up.

"So, how'd it go?" he asked, surveying her face.

Harry shrugged, a default action.

Things weren't fine and John knew it.

"Harry," he began. "Don't shrug at me. What happened?"

She bit the corner of her lip and shifted.

John patted the couch next to him and, as Harry sat down, shut his laptop and put it on the floor next to his cup of coffee.

She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. "I went round to her flat…our flat. She wasn't in so I changed clothes and I wrote a note, trying to explain…I don't think it was that great. I mean," she said, accepting John's arm around her shoulder, "I'm not the most well-spoken of people."  
John kissed her forehead and said consolingly, "I'm sure Clara will understand. I mean, exactly how long have you two been together?"

Harry smiled sadly, turning her face into John's clean-smelling checked shirt.

"And," John continued, playing with a lock of his sister's long, blonde hair, "If Clara doesn't realise what you two have, then…"  
He trailed off, suddenly thinking of Sherlock.

Harry took her face out of John's shirt and looked at him. He was, to none of her surprise, gazing in the direction of Sherlock, who was very obviously reading his book again.

"Then…?" she prompted him.

John shook his head, almost as if it would dispel his thoughts like droplets of water. He had more _important_ issues to be dealing with than these conflicting feelings towards his mysteriously handsome flatmate.

"Then," he continued, pointedly not looking at Sherlock, who had been reading the same page for five minutes, "She's _bloody _stupid."

Harry made a noise in between a hiccup and a giggle, and hugged her younger brother tightly.

* * *

That night the wind was blustery and the clouds blocked out the shining moon. John wasn't really looking at the sky, trudging along the streets with his hands in his pockets. He had been sent by a combined persuasive force of Harry and Sherlock to go in search of Chinese takeaway.

"So," said Harry to Sherlock, lazing in John's chair and basking in the warmth of the fire crackling in the grate, "When are you and Hedgehog going to get together?"

She spun her phone boredly in the palm of her hand.

Sherlock coughed but ignored her, pondering an interesting point from one of his current cases.

"Oh, come on!" she exclaimed, setting her phone on the arm of the chair and leaning forward, tilting her head.

"Get with?" said Sherlock, sitting back and stretching his bony fingers over the arms of the chair.

"Oh, _come on_, you clever bastard. Don't play dumb with me." Harry persisted. "The sexual tension between you two, you could cut it with a knife."

Sherlock blushed the lightest tinge of pink and cleared his throat.

"John is my friend." he replied. Whatever he said, it was going to be obvious that he wanted the two of them to be more than…friends.

Harry laughed. "Sure, sure. Whatever gets you through the day."

When John finally got back with the food, Harry leapt up and grabbed it off him.

He stared at her.

"I'm fucking starving. What the bloody hell took you so long, Hedgehog?" she said, heading in the direction of the kitchen.

"Hey. _No swearing_." said John, in response.

"Bollocks." said Harry over her shoulder.

As John took off his shoes and stretched his hands, defrosting them in the warmth of the fire, he turned to Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair.

By now, he'd given up trying to lie to himself any more. He'd thought about it as he'd trudged to the Chinese takeaway store, while he'd sat in the tiny shop waiting for their food, and while he'd trudged all the way home again.

He wasn't sure exactly how much he was attracted to Sherlock, but he definitely was.

Thinking about it now, he looked more handsome than John had ever seen him before, the soft light from the fire highlighting his gentle curls and flickering in those bright, intelligent eyes.

"Yes, John?" said Sherlock, acutely aware of the doctor's eyes boring into him.

"Ah, nothing…" John said, turning back to the fire. He was slowly getting feeling back into the tips of his numb fingers.

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to the fire. There were rattling noises in the kitchen. Sherlock flinched as he mentally took stock of all the things Harry was going through, presumably looking for cutlery.

Partly this was to take his mind off the handsome army doctor whose presence seemed to have a much more…_electric_…effect on the consulting detective than usual.

He stood up, suddenly, and put his book on the mantlepiece.

John hadn't realised how _close_ the two of them were until Sherlock stood up. They were practically touching.

John was so close to Sherlock's face he could see the flecks of green in those enchanting blue eyes.

_But_, his body said, _you still aren't close enough_.

He leant forward to close the gap between them, when there was a noise behind them.

He stepped backwards and turned around in one fluid movement to find Harry putting some cutlery on the table behind them. He glared at her.

"Oh, don't mind me." she said, turning back to the kitchen to find bowls.

The moment was lost, however.

Sherlock, now blushing beyond all pretense, had turned away and was clearing things off the table Harry had dumped the cutlery on.

John mentally hit himself and, trying very hard to will his body not to give away just how much he _wanted_ Sherlock, set about putting chairs around their make-do dining table.

Harry was stretched out in a chair, eating spring rolls and fried rice in equal amounts, while Sherlock and John avoided looking at each other and picked at their noodles.

She watched them amusedly.

"So, did you guys kiss?" she said, swallowing the end of her spring roll and reaching for her glass of cola.

She couldn't resist a smile as the two blushed more furiously than ever and John kicked her under the table.

"Just saying, just saying," she said, putting her glass back on the table with a clink and returning to her fried rice.

Sherlock resisted the urge to make a sharp comment about her table manners and instead focused on eating.

Why was his heart _beating_ so fast? It was quite distracting.  
His breath, too, seemed rather shallow. Just knowing that John was sitting at the other side of the small table seemed to be having a curiously adverse affect on the 'detached' detective, who had worked out what his body was saying the moment he'd stood up next to the fireplace, but was still trying to understand it.

He was on the verge of saying something to John, to try and get their relationship back to a place he was familiar with, when Harry's phone rang.  
She jumped up and grabbed it, pressing the answer call button faster than John had thought it humanly possible.

"Clara?" she said, pushing her chair aside and going into the kitchen.

John and Sherlock ate in silence, Sherlock focusing on deducing what was going on; and John listening keenly to the conversation dribbling through the door.

It seemed to be going well.

_Thank goodness, _he thought.

More than anything else, he was glad that this probably meant Harry would be out of the flat.

He needed to sort things out with Sherlock.

Harry hung up the phone, heart ecstatic, and, taking her coat from the coatrack on the back of the living room door, sat down to tie up the laces on her grubby Converse.

"So, everything's worked out between you two?" said John, smiling.

"Yeah," said Harry. "She got my note. I'm going over to talk it out, but I think we're sweet."  
She fastened her coat around her, so relieved and happy that the buttons were all mismatched, and, hugging John, kissed him on the cheek.  
"Thanks." she said, smiling gratefully at him.

He waved her thanks off with his hand. "Any time."  
Sherlock made a disgruntled noise.

"Oh, and thanks too, Sherlock. You've been…civil." she said, straightening up and heading to the door.

She turned around and faced John. "So, see you, little Hedgehog. Have fun," she said, winking. John crumpled his serviette into a ball. "And Sherlock? Yeah…ah, some of those funny tube things might have…broken…when I was getting cutlery? Or something like that. Man, you guys have got some weird shit in your kitchen drawers. Who the fuck has the cutlery in the bottom drawer?" she added as an afterthought, before disappearing down the stairs and out of the flat.

John let out a sigh as the front door banged shut after her.

Sherlock stood up and raced to the kitchen, and having surveyed the damage and deciding that it was nothing _important_, came back and sat down next to John, who was finishing his drink.

He fidgeted with his cuffs, buttoning and unbuttoning them.

"John," he began, at the same time John said "Look, Sherlock-"

Both of them stopped and looked at the other.

"No, you." said John.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "John. I don't have a lot of experience with, ah, romantic _feelings_, as a superior mind, you know, but…I seem to be experiencing some at the moment, John, and I feel obliged to tell you that I have tested my hypothesis and come to the conclusion that you are the root cause."

John wrinkled an eyebrow as he processed the information.

Sherlock bit the inside of his lip and tried not to think about how adorable he looked.

"Oh, well, good." said John, awkwardly. He really wasn't very good at expressing feelings. That kind of emotional, poetic…stuff was drilled out of you in the army. He couldn't find words to express how Sherlock made him feel: how he made John's skin shiver or how he managed to have the effect of several thousand killer butterflies in his stomach.

"Same." he settled for saying, before he pulled Sherlock to him by the purple fabric of his shirt.

Sherlock wasn't really prepared for how John's lips felt pressed to his. It gave him a swooping sensation in his stomach, almost as though he was on one of those thoroughly childish amusement park rides.

When the two broke apart for the sheer lack of oxygen, he whispered something about how unexpectedly nice kissing was in John's ear.  
John didn't really pick up on what he was saying. All that registered was Sherlock's deep voice and hot breath on his ear, and it was all he could do not to push him to the ground.

Sherlock drew John to him again and felt John reach into his hair and pull their jaws closer together, as Sherlock reached around and pulled John's waist closer to his.

He hadn't felt so happy, ever.

* * *

The next morning, waking up to a sleeping John wrapped in his arms, soft and warm, Sherlock thought that he might have overlooked the good points of feelings. They certainly seemed to have their upsides, after all.


End file.
